the end of all things (and the beginning of others)
by coffee-not-decaf
Summary: After he dies, Arthur's soul must join his body in Avalon, to sleep, and to wait for the world to need him once more. On his journey there, however, he comes across more than one familiar face.


There was nothing.

Arthur was floating in the darkest void imaginable, surrounded by blackness and by what felt like water. He could not breathe, he could not think, he could barely be. His thoughts were flashes, strings of ideas that could not fully form; his consciousness was merely an illusion.

He was dead. Purely and simply dead.

There was nothing else to it.

Until there was.

Until there was an explosion of white light, an explosion of color and sound, and Arthur could feel again, could think again, could be whole again.

He didn't want to open his eyes.

He remembered now, he remembered that the sword in his side, the dying light of the early morning as Merlin's tearstained face looked down on his form with love and bone-crushing sadness – Arthur remembered how he hadn't wanted to leave him.

But he had. He had spoken his final words, breathed his last – and now he was dead.

"Arthur."

A voice, high, melodic, feminine, beautiful voice, called to him, almost whispered his name like a prayer, as if the person was a mere inch from him.

Arthur had heard that voice only once before.

It was his mother's voice.

He forced his eyes open and he saw her, framed in beautiful white light in what appeared to be a clearing in the woods, the woods just outside of Camelot, the woods Arthur had spent many an hour hunting in, traveling through. He blinked back tears as a rush of emotion bubbled up inside of him at the sight of her face, narrow and blonde, a white sheath hanging off of her.

She looked like an angel sent from heaven above.

Which, Arthur reflected, she was. She was an angel, because they were both dead. She must have been sent to fetch him, sent to bring him to wherever he was going next. He swallowed hard and his voice wavered as he spoke.

"Mother."

"Oh, my darling boy, my darling king," she whispered reverently, a small, pale hand reaching outwards. It did not touch Arthur's skin, stopping only a few inches from his cheek. It simply hung in the air between them. "I'm so, so proud of you."

"You are?" Arthur's throat constricted, reaching a larger hand up to meet the other in midair. She pulled back, though, and Arthur recoiled, hurt that she wouldn't touch him, wouldn't let him hug her as she had in that dreaming, unreal state the last time.

Her eyes softened as if she had read his mind, his doubts and fears. "Of course I am. I cannot hold you yet, my dear, for I am dead, truly and wholly. You are neither one nor the other."

"How is that possible?" Arthur asked her, knowing that the answer would be an honest one.

"You have another journey to take. You must go to Avalon. We cannot see each other quite yet."

"Why not? Why can't I see you? What's Avalon?" Arthur's voice grew increasingly shrill, and he would have been a touch embarrassed if he was alive. Being dead excused his panic, though, excused it well. Anyone would be allowed a few liberties in this situation, even a king.

"Your time on earth is not yet complete," she smiled softly at him. "You have much to do, my son. But first, you must make it to Avalon so that you can rest. Your body as already arrived. It is simply your soul that must make the journey now. Follow the path through the wood, Arthur, to your resting place. And when the world is in need of you again, it shall call you back home. And then, finally, when you are finished there, we shall meet at last."

"What –?" Arthur had so many questions on the tip of his tongue, but he never got to ask a single one, for in the next moment, the figure, the specter, the ghost, had vanished from his sight.

He was alone in the woods.

It seemed somewhat darker now.

Arthur had never been one for mourning, especially now that he was the one dead, but he had to wipe a few stray droplets away with his sleeve.

It took him a few moments, but he found the path that his mother had mentioned. It was old and worn and not like any that Arthur had ever seen in these woods before – but these were not his woods at all, were they?

He began to trudge down the trail.

His surroundings were familiar, achingly familiar, and they made Arthur long for Camelot, for his home, for his knights, for Guinevere. For Merlin.

But they were gone – or, rather, he was gone.

And somehow, he needed to go to a place called Avalon to sleep until the world needed him again.

It was almost comforting, in a way, the idea that Arthur still had a life to return to. He had never expected it; he thought death was permanent. But this was his mother, and she would not lie to him. She would never lie to him. Arthur had never been certain of many things in his life, but he was certain of that.

Then again, he had been certain Merlin would never lie to him either.

He tried not to think of his manservant turned sorcerer and what would happen to him without Arthur there. He would mourn, Arthur knew, but he would move on eventually, find a life and happiness, gain respect that Arthur had never given him.

Arthur had many regrets. But never recognizing Merlin for who he truly was might be his greatest of all.

If only he had known, if only he had been able to tell, if only so many things.

He hoped Merlin would think back on their days together fondly.

He hoped Guinevere would find strength without him, even if that strength lay with someone else.

He hoped his knights, he hoped Leon and Percival and Gwaine, would keep Camelot safe for him.

All he could do now was hope.

It seemed his thoughts of Camelot had brought something about, for there was a rustle in the bushes to his left. Arthur reached instinctively to his side for his sword, but it wasn't there. It was with his body, wherever that was, wherever Merlin had taken it to be buried or cast away into the sea with fire and smoke.

So he waited and watched, for he could still defend himself even if his weapon, his glorious Excalibur, was not beside him.

He was expecting a threat.

He wasn't expecting Gwaine.

But the man tumbled out of the bushes anyway, looking as if he had just stumbled back to the castle from his nightly round at the tavern, just slightly tipsy and on his way to becoming well and truly drunk. Arthur was so surprised he took a step backward.

"Arthur," Gwaine's smile was lazy but earnest. "It appears the two of us lost our lives in close succession, eh? Who woulda thought that I'd find a king to die for? You were good, y'know. Only king I coulda ever served. You did good."

A rush of emotions went through Arthur – mourning, of course, for Gwaine was gone as well and Camelot had one less protector, and also pride and flattery, for he doubted Gwaine had ever gave him a compliment of this gravity before, even if he did sound drunk of his arse.

"You come find me, me and Elyan and Lancelot, when you get to where you're going," Unfocused eyes met Arthur's own. "You come find us and we'll celebrate some lives well-lived. Promise me you'll come find us."

"I'll come and find you, Gwaine," Arthur clasped the other man's shoulder; for he had a feeling this would be the last time he would see his knight in a very long while. "I always come find you, don't I?"

Gwaine grinned. "You always do."

And then he was gone and the path was empty once again.

Arthur continued onward, even though the winding and twisting road didn't appear to have any sort of ending to it. Maybe this was Avalon, this path, and Arthur would be forced to wander for the rest of eternity, or at least until he was called back.

That would be a horrible afterlife.

He didn't have long to wait, though, before he found another visitor.

Uther stood in front of him, there in an instant, his appearance so quick and unexpected that Arthur nearly jumped a foot in the air. His father – his father, whom he had loved, but who had tried to kill him upon their last meeting – and he stared at Uther's expressionless face and waited for him to say something, say anything.

"You were," Uther began. "A good king. A good son. And I'm sorry."

As quickly as he appeared, the specter was gone.

Arthur heaved out a sigh of relief he hadn't known he was holding in, and trudged onward.

He walked for a long while, a very long while, hours and hours, but his feet never tired, his mouth never thirsted, he never grew even the slightest bit weary.

A benefit, he supposed, of being dead. At least there were a few.

At one point, he thought he could see Morgana through the trees, if he squinted and peered through the bramble and bushes. She wouldn't come out into the light; she was entirely encased in the shadows. Later, he saw Mordred, doing the exact same thing. They didn't speak to him.

They hid away from him, out of hatred, or perhaps out of shame. Perhaps they were sorry, sorry for betraying his trust. His sister in blood and his brother in all but.

He wished, not for the first time, that circumstances had been different.

When he saw Leon and Percival standing next to a clump of trees, his heart nearly twisted in two. His other knights couldn't be dead, could they? No, no, they had to stay with Camelot, keep her whole in Arthur's absence.

"My Lord," Leon said warmly as Arthur approached the pair cautiously, emotions of despair most likely prominent on his face, for Leon quickly reassured him, "We are still in the land of the living, there is no need to worry."

"Then – how are you here if you're still alive?" Arthur asked them. Percival smiled as he responded.

"I am asleep in my bed. Leon is sitting in the throne room with Guinevere. This is merely a dream to us, Arthur. But we are here to say goodbye."

"Goodbye?" Arthur repeated.

"To thank you," Percival clarified. "For being our leader. Our king. Our friend."

"You will be missed every single day," Leon continued as he grasped Arthur's shoulder, Arthur nearly collapsing under the touch, for it was too much. This was too much. "You will never be forgotten. And we, your knights, will keep your land for you. We will aid your queen. We will keep you in our hearts until the day comes that we can meet again."

"A day that will come," said Percival as he noticed Arthur's slight trepidation at the words. "The Knights of the Round Table have not sung their last yet."

Arthur tried to respond, to tell them how much their loyalty meant to him, how grateful he was for their love and support, for everything – but he couldn't. His lips wouldn't move, his throat wouldn't work.

But it seemed his knights understood him, just as they always had, for they gave him twin smiles before dissipating into nothingness.

Arthur knew who was coming next.

And there she was, mere minutes later, a beautiful figure dressed in deep red, her face tearstained but smiling before him. "Arthur."

"Guinevere."

And they embraced lightly, hugging one another fiercely, and Arthur found comfort in the touch, in the presence of his wife, of his queen. When they broke apart, she was still smiling up at him.

"Do not worry about Camelot. I will keep her safe. I will be her queen. Your legacy will live on, and though I shall rule alone, I shall think of you every day, miss you every second, my love."

"Don't rule alone," Arthur took her hand in his own and squeezed it tightly. "I love you, Guinevere. But find someone. I want you to live a life of love and happiness, even if it is not with me. Remember that, won't you? Don't be alone."

Guinevere's smile turned sad. "No matter whom I may love in the future, Arthur –and there may be someone – you will always be my king."

Their hands touched one last time before she vanished into the trees.

The day had faded into early evening now, and his surroundings were bathed in soft, gold, glowing light. It was beautiful, almost peaceful. It brought contentment to Arthur's heart, and there was a strange familiarity to this sunset, a familiarity that pulled at his heartstrings and made him think of home, yet Camelot had never before looked as if this dead, a the sky a mixture of swirling dusty brown and gold like a crown or like –

– A sorcerer's eyes.

And at once Arthur knew what was causing those warm and pleasant feelings that were erupting in his chest.

Arthur rounded the next corner and there he was, leaning against an old and gnarled oak tree, and he grinned over at Arthur in that infuriating way. He had a look to him as if he had been waiting there, just waiting, for Arthur to arrive, to finally, finally show up.

Merlin took a few steps forward until his face was only a few inches away, their toes nearly touching. When he spoke, the grin slipped off of his face and his voice grew heavy.

"Hello, Arthur."

"Merlin," Arthur breathed and he remembered their final moments, the sun rising up above them, the grass just the slightest bit wet beneath them as he had collapsed on top of Merlin –

_"Just – just hold me. Please."_

Merlin knew, because Merlin always knew, and his arms were around Arthur in a second, one curled around his waist and the other cupping the back of his next. Arthur broke down at the touch and reveled in the contact, in the fact that it hadn't been the last time, even if Merlin wouldn't remember this, even if this was only a dream to him –

"I'm sorry," Arthur said into his shoulder. "I'm sorry I left you alone. Thank you, Merlin, thank you so much."

"No need to thank me," Merlin gripped him tighter, and although Arthur couldn't see his eyes, he knew that the other man was crying. "I'm sorry, too. I'm sorry I couldn't save you, Arthur."

And they stayed like that for a moment, but they broke apart eventually, reluctantly, and Merlin's smile was watery now.

"I don't want to leave. I want to stay here with you."

"No, no," Arthur shook his head. "You've got life to live, Merlin. And you'll – you'll be better off without me. You can become what you want now. You don't have to be a servant anymore."

"Oh, but Arthur, I'm always going to be a servant," he gave out a laugh, half bitter and half true. "I'll serve you until the end of my days. And I'll wait for you. You'll be coming back someday, and I'll wait until you do."

"So I am returning?" Arthur asked him.

"I hope so," his tone turned wistful, filled with a longing that Arthur couldn't place. "Because I plan on waiting until the sun burns out. How long do you reckon that'll be? A thousand years? Twenty thousand? I'll wait either way."

"_Merlin,"_ tears were falling freely from Arthur's eyes. "Please tell me you won't."

"But then I'd be a liar," Merlin's hand reached up almost hesitantly, and at once Arthur leaned forward into the feeling of rough, course skin that wiped away just a bit of the water. "I never liked being a liar. So I'll say it plainly and clearly. I will wait for you to return. I don't care how long it takes. Because I love you, Arthur. My lord. My king."

He paused just a moment. "My friend."

He was gone so fast that Arthur didn't have the chance to say that he was glad, that he knew he could trust Merlin, rely on him, that he was so, so relieved that he wouldn't be alone when he woke, that he knew Merlin would follow through, and that he loved him, too, he loved him, too.

But Merlin had disappeared now, and Arthur steeled himself, wiping away a few more stray tears and wishing he still had Merlin to take them away for him, he walked on.

It was dark now, dusk had turned into night, and the blackness, while it began quietly and without announcement, quickly turned absolute, consuming, and all-empowering. Arthur could barely make out the path now, yet he walked onward. He didn't think he could stop if he tried.

His efforts turned out to be worth the while, for there was a light in the distance, just barely there, but still existing, a flash of gold amongst the dark. Arthur selfishly hoped for it to be Merlin, but he knew that he had seen the last of his friend for quite a while now.

He hoped fervently it was less than twenty thousand years, though. That seemed a bit extreme, although there wasn't a bone in his body that doubted Merlin would wait out that long if it was necessary.

Arthur didn't deserve his loyalty.

The light grew closer and closer and Arthur, when it was so near to him that he could see it was a torch held by a small but still human figure that was standing next to a rickety, wooden boat that sat in the start of a lake, broke into a run.

He had to reach the light as fast as he could, and he knew it.

The figure turned to greet him upon his arrival. It was a woman, small, slight, dark-haired, and entirely unfamiliar in every way. She smiled at him nonetheless.

"Arthur Pendragon. It is a true honor."

"Hello," Arthur said, uncomfortable that she knew him while he was clueless as to her identity. "Who are you?"

"I am the Lady of the Lake," she said. "But you may call me Freya. I'm here to take you to Avalon."

"What is Avalon?" Arthur asked her.

"Where you will sleep," Freya stepped aside as she shifted the torch light into her other hand, gesturing at the boat in front of them. "After you."

Arthur, hesitant, lifted a foot and stepped cautiously into the raft that looked ready to collapse at any moment. Freya smiled at his less than willingness before following him. The boat, surprisingly, held both of their weights, and it set sail without as much as a word.

Magic. Or perhaps that was just the way the land of the dead, or Avalon, or wherever they were, worked.

They were silent in their crossing, the water as quiet as them. There was an island up ahead of them, blurry, but Arthur could still make it out. It was their destination, he was certain of that. He should have been frightened on some level, but he wasn't. The isle was softly beckoning Arthur into slumber, and he could feel his eyes drooping.

"How long will I sleep for?" He asked Freya, struggling to stay awake.

"A long time, Once And Future King," she said, her eyes turning away from the approaching isle to meet his own with kindness and warmth. "Do not worry. Camelot shall prosper, the world will turn on, and Merlin will wait. And someday, you shall return to the living world to fulfill your destiny at last."

Those were the last words Arthur heard before everything went blank once again.

The moment the boat touched the mainland, he fell asleep.

And then there was light.

And water.

And he was drowning, Arthur was sure he was drowning ,but there were hands, good, strong, hands, grabbing him and holding him and yanking him upward. He let them take him, let them haul him up, for he couldn't do it on his own.

There was air now, and he took it in, retching and gasping, like he hadn't had a deep breath in a thousand years, and water spluttered out of his lungs as he coughed and those strong hands were pulling him now, pulling him out of the water, and Arthur still couldn't see.

So he opened his eyes.

And there Merlin was, soaking wet and dressed in some kind of ridiculous clothing, his hair spikier and smile wider than Arthur could ever remember seeing. He was crying, too, crying because he was happy, and Arthur began to register it was because of him that Merlin looked like this.

"Merlin," he forced out, his voice raspy and weak. He hadn't used it in so long – he had been asleep, he remembered now. And Merlin –Merlin, had waited for him, just like he said he would.

As if there were any ever doubt.

"Arthur," was his reply with a voice so wrought in emotion, in joy and in pain, and Arthur had to ask.

"Was it closer to one thousand or twenty thousand?"

"One thousand five hundred and twelve," Merlin grinned as he cupped Arthur's cheek with his hand. They were still both waist-deep in water, but Arthur was barely aware of the fact. "Not that I was counting or anything."

Arthur laughed because it was a joke.

And then cried, because it was still far too long to wait for someone who might not return.

But Merlin was crying, too, so it was okay.

It was alright to cry when you were dead. It was also alright to cry when you had just come back to life and you were with someone who still loved you.

Even after one thousand five hundred and twelve years.


End file.
